


And You Just Want to Come on Home

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Episode Related, Foursome - M/M/M/M, Hand Jobs, Multi, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-28
Updated: 2014-07-28
Packaged: 2018-02-10 17:33:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2033838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He feels flanked, protected and encompassed, and it’s a strange and pleasant feeling, to let himself fall down into that warmth and security.  Or, Porthos, Aramis, and d'Artagnan take it upon themselves to give Athos some attention. (Or, perhaps, vice versa.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	And You Just Want to Come on Home

**Author's Note:**

> This is episode related in only the vaguest of senses, since this takes place some time after 1x10. 
> 
> Also gratuitous porn, so hey. Written for the prompt "watching each other" which I guess is meant to be like mutual masturbation but I went "nah" and rolled with it. Also continuing to write from Athos' POV for no discernible reason other than I'm a masochist who likes to write from the voice I feel least confident in. Also first time writing d'Artagnan so apologies if he's not up to snuff.

It’s late in the evening and there are more than a few empty wine bottles between the four of them – celebrating, or commiserating, Athos isn’t sure – celebrating the victory over the Cardinal, over Athos’ erstwhile wife, but commiseration for d’Artagnan’s mess of love and longing. Still, there’s a kind of pulse through Athos’ blood, a kind of singing, stinging that he can’t rid himself of – and perhaps doesn’t want to. It isn’t unpleasant, after al, and it’s a hum of wine and of victory and of the closeness he feels from the other three, d’Artagnan curled up to his thigh not unlike a puppy, Porthos slumped against his shoulder and Aramis leaning in against his other one, head resting against his shoulder as he drinks down a hefty gulp of wine. Perhaps Aramis needs commiseration, too, but Athos tries not to think of it – tries not to pay attention to that painful sting, that spark of frustration at Aramis’ own stupidity. No, it should be a time of celebration – and the energy in the room seems to mimic that mindset, promising both comfort and triumph. He feels flanked, protected and encompassed, and it’s a strange and pleasant feeling, to let himself fall down into that warmth and security. 

He first catches Porthos’ eyes, when he turns his head slightly, groping blindly for another bottle of wine – and Porthos smiles at him, soft and sweet, and Athos can’t help but feel his own lips quirk up into a half-smile, a shadow of a smile, really – but sincere, for him, and he knows that Porthos will know the meaning. And then d’Artagnan and Aramis look at him in turn, in tandem, smiling at him and shifting closer, and Athos feels himself relax. He can’t help but smile back – yes, he’s all right, he’s here now. Porthos and Aramis on either side of him seem to prop him up, keep him steady so he does not waver, and it is Athos who must reach out to catch d’Artagnan when he sits up and wavers, floppy and slumped. Loose. 

“Careful,” he murmurs, quietly, and d’Artagnan makes a soft, quiet noise, either of agreement or just for the sake of speaking, Athos isn’t sure. But he leans into the touch of Athos’ hand against his shoulder and he’s sloppy and loose from the wine, clearly, but it isn’t a bad thing. He feels Porthos slip beside him, moving slightly away, but close enough that Athos can still feel the heat radiating off of him. 

He’s still holding d’Artagnan up when he makes a soft sound again, quieter this time, and looks at Porthos – and Porthos shrugs a little, his little abortive movement of _why not_ and they fall into each other, and d’Artagnan moves all over him, hands and tongue and limbs, as if movement is permission, motion is invitation – and Porthos responds, after a brief glance towards both Athos and Aramis, who stays curled into Athos’ side. Aramis twists a little to get a better view of them, chin digging into Athos’ shoulder. Athos can feel the scrape of his stubble against his neck when Aramis nuzzles, just slightly, breathing out as he watches them. 

Porthos is gentle with d’Artagnan, kissing him deeply, hands cupping his jaw as if he is fragile. It’s always been a wonder to Athos, how easily Porthos could hurt any of them, and yet, for all his brute strength and his bluntness, he only ever treated them gently. It’s no exception with d’Artagnan, the way his blunt thumbs press against his face, as if to trace a beard that isn’t there, and kisses him deeply, his teeth dragging over d’Artagnan’s bottom lip hard enough to catch a gasp from him. 

Aramis sighs out, just barely, against his neck and then twists and slides down Athos’ body, until he’s resting on his lap, eyes still focused on Porthos and d’Artagnan, on the way Porthos slowly undoes d’Artagnan piece by piece. Athos watches, strangely fascinated, with the way d’Artagnan’s hands lift first to fist into his collar and then tentatively up the back of his neck and into his hair, as if unsure what to do, as if unsure how to treat Porthos – whether he should be gentle and sincere as he was with Constance, or more demanding. Aramis rests against his thigh, restless and moving in drunken little spurts, getting comfortable even as he lets out the tiniest of whimpers when Porthos bites down at d’Artagnan’s bottom lip, to elicit another gasp from him. 

Athos drops his gaze from the two for a moment, focusing on Aramis when he makes another restless sound, brushing his fingers through his hair, petting him gently. This seems to appease Aramis, who turns his head and nuzzles against his hip, sighing out enough that wisps of his breath touch at the bare spot of skin where Athos’ tunic is loose from his breeches. 

When he looks up again, Porthos and d’Artagnan have broken apart – at least for the time being, as soon enough d’Artagnan leans in and kisses against Porthos’ jaw – and Porthos chuckles, low and deep and gravelly. Athos watches a d’Artagnan bites at Porthos’ ear, draws in the little earring into his mouth and suckles experimentally. When he draws back and meets Athos’ eyes, he seems to hesitate for a second, the sudden boldness slipping away, as if afraid he has disappointed Athos.

Porthos’ fingers curl into d’Artagnan’s hair, petting in much the same way Athos does Aramis’ hair. Athos watches d’Artagnan breathe out, draw strength from such a simple touch, and looks at Athos when he asks, “Can I suck your cock after Aramis does?” 

Athos blinks for a moment as the words sink in, and he feels far too drunk and loose-limbed himself, and he drops his gaze down to Aramis in confusion only to see Aramis looking back up at him, undeniable mischief in his eye as he leans forward and kisses Athos through his breeches, mouth sliding along the edge of his cock, and Athos is ashamed to find that he’s already half-hard just from watching Porthos and d’Artagnan, just from feeling the pleasant weight of Aramis in his lap. 

“Let us?” he hears Aramis murmur, sees the way Aramis looks up at him. Athos doesn’t know if he nods or not – but he thinks he does. 

“It’ll be good,” Porthos rumbles out, voice thick and graveled. “Just tell us if it’s a no?” 

He doesn’t say yes or no, but he looks back up at d’Artagnan and even he knows there’s a certain pleading look in his eyes – he can feel as much as well as see it mirrored in d’Artagnan’s eyes. Embolden by whatever he sees from Athos, though, d’Artagnan reaches out and unlaces Athos’ trousers for him, and Porthos reaches out and tugs it down enough over his hips that Aramis can draw out his cock, and then drapes himself carefully over d’Artagnan to watch the proceedings as Aramis shifts closer, and Porthos’ hand drops into Aramis’ hair and tugs him forward towards Athos. 

It isn’t the first time he’s seen Aramis suck a cock, nor the first time it’s been Aramis between his legs, but it still sends a shockwave pulsing up his spine – and it’s the first time he’s felt two pairs of eyes on him, felt the scalding presence of Porthos’ stability and comfort, the hand curled tight into Aramis’ hair, and it’s the first time he’s felt d’Artagnan’s eyes on him – soft and curious and forgiving, but longing, and it’s enough to make Athos shudder. He watches the way Porthos pets Aramis’ hair, watches the way Aramis opens his mouth and takes the tip of Athos’ cock into his mouth, flat against his tongue. He hears and feels Aramis mewl slightly with pleasure, suckles around him and swallows him down, working slowly and teasing, just the way he likes it. 

Porthos shifts closer, lips pressing to Athos’ ear, and he whispers, quietly, “He loves it when you play with his hair, you know.” 

And Athos does know, and his hands drop down to Aramis’ hair when Porthos draws his back, strokes his fingertips along Aramis’ jaw, tilts his chin up a little so he can take Athos in deeper, his throat working and his soft, pleased sounds vibrating against Athos’ cock as he works around him, laps and suckles and brushes his tongue along the underside. 

He watches Aramis, knows how much Aramis likes it when there are eyes on him, watches the way Aramis lays worship to his cock, pillows his lips along the head, sucks and licks and curls his mouth around him, just swallowing him down – and it’s with only his great effort of self-restraint that he doesn’t start to thrust hard into Aramis’ willing mouth. Instead, he tugs just a little on his hair, thrills in the delighted little moan that presses against his cockhead where Aramis laves his tongue across him. 

He glances away, briefly, to find d’Artagnan sliding down over Porthos, to find Porthos’ hands in his hair, holding tight, guiding him down, murmuring to him quietly in words that only d’Artagnan can hear. When he catches Athos looking, Porthos just inclines his head and winks, keeping his eyes to Athos even as he strokes his fingers through d’Artagnan’s hair. 

“Yeah,” he says, when d’Artagnan, eager and impulsive, undoes Porthos’ belt and tugs at his breeches. Porthos lifts his hips, tugging lightly on his hair. “Yeah, like that. Perfect.” 

Athos watches as d’Artagnan leans forward, mouth wide and impatient, and curls around Porthos’ cock, hard and thick in his hand. Athos closes his eyes, listens to the sounds of d’Artagnan sucking Porthos off – wet and slick, soft and delicious. He hears Porthos moan, low and quiet. 

He feels the answering velvet friction of Aramis’ mouth on his, licking and sucking and humming, soft and wet, breathing out through his nose as he swallows down around him, takes the entire length of his cock with an expert skill – and Athos bites back the quietest of moans that presses against his throat as Aramis draws him in, mouth sweet and soft. Athos keeps his eyes shut, rocks up the tiniest bit into Aramis’ willing mouth, hears Aramis moan. 

When he opens his eyes again, he catches Porthos looking at him – expression soft with longing and understanding, and Athos’ hands shake from where they grip Aramis’ hair. He tugs a little, if only to hear that soft murmur of happiness around his cock. There’s a flash of movement, and a hand lifts from d’Artagnan’s hair and touches at Athos’ jaw, tips his head, and Athos’ eyelids flutter before falling shut as Porthos leans in, thumb tracing along his jaw. Porthos’ thumb, his hand in d’Artagnan’s hair, d’Artagnan’s mouth around his cock. Athos breathes out, shakily. 

“Alright?” Porthos murmurs quietly against his ear and Athos can only nod, can feel Porthos’ gaze on him. He opens his eyes and watches the way d’Artagnan’s mouth slides along Porthos’ cock, trying his best to match Aramis’ skill, Porthos too large for his inexperienced mouth, lips dark and red around Porthos’ cock, watches the pink of his tongue, the flash of his teeth not tucked underneath his lips. Athos watches d’Artagnan’s mouth on Porthos’ cock and shivers. 

Porthos’ hand stays tracing along Athos’ jaw, but his other hand works to guide d’Artagnan, moves d’Artagnan to the steady, perfect rhythm that Aramis has set, rising him up along his cock as Aramis draws back, breathing out around Athos’ cock. Porthos pulls d’Artagnan’s eager mouth back down as Aramis quirks a smile and slides his lips and tongue down the length of Athos’ cock, heavy and hard in his hand, fingers curled along the base playfully, squeezing occasionally as Aramis licks and kisses at the tip, lets the cockhead brush over his lips and cheek and back into his warm mouth again. 

“Don’t do that just yet,” Porthos murmurs in warning to d’Artagnan when Aramis’ teeth draw very briefly, very gently, across the edge of his cockhead, causing Athos to gasp. Porthos’ only reply is d’Artagnan’s needy little whine as he watches Aramis’ lips curled around Athos’ cock – and Athos doesn’t know if the sound is for Athos’ cock or for Aramis’ lips. 

Athos’ hands slide into Aramis’ hair again, renewing his grip, cradling Aramis’ head, holding Porthos’ eyes with his own – and Porthos doesn’t look away even as he pets his fingers through d’Artagnan’s hair, guides him down along his cock, rocks his hips up to meet him and only backing off before d’Artagnan can choke. Athos shivers, at the look Porthos gives him, the slide of his thumb along the line of his jaw, shivers and shudders at the way Aramis slides so sweetly over his cock. 

Porthos closes his eyes but Athos can’t look away, watches the way Porthos’ hand fists in d’Artagnan’s hair, the way his hips shudder upwards. He can see the way his pleasure starts to crest, can see that he’s close, can see by the way he drives into d’Artagnan’s mouth – not so gentle now – and the way d’Artagnan struggles to meet him, making soft, pleading sounds from around Porthos’ cock. And Athos watches as Porthos comes, his body bowing, his hips stuttering a little before he stills, buried deep into d’Artagnan’s mouth. He watches d’Artagnan’s nostrils flare, watches him work his throat, hands scrambling over his thighs and hips and keeping him close as he swallows down around him, uncertain but eager to learn, catching on quickly, licking up every drop he can reach. 

Athos watches as d’Artagnan slides up as Porthos’ body slides down, and their mouths meet, wet and sweet and delirious. 

Aramis’ head is still in Athos’ lap, restless and arching, licking and sucking at Athos like he’s greedy for it, keen to draw out his orgasm as d’Artagnan did Porthos. Athos strokes over his face, thumb along his brow, into his hair, and Aramis opens his eyes and looks up at Athos, smiling, moaning softly from around his cockhead, suckling and pressing his tongue in small circles along his oversensitive skin. 

And then he gasps quietly, when Porthos reaches out, dragging his hand over Aramis’ back and then sliding to his front, working quickly to undo Aramis’ belt even as he sucks d’Artagnan’s tongue into his mouth, kissing him soundly as d’Artagnan makes soft, encouraging sounds into the kiss, hands fumbling to hold onto Porthos however he can, rocking against him to relieve the tension of his own need. Athos gasps out quietly when he sees Porthos’ fingers curl around Aramis’ cock, and he’s stroking, quick and hard, not at all teasing the way Aramis usually likes it – but Aramis is far from complaining, moaning as his lips tremble around Athos’ cock. 

Aramis’ cheek brushes against his cock, and he strokes his fingers through his hair as Aramis writhes against Porthos’ merciless touch, trembling, he watches the way Porthos looks at Aramis, soft smiles around d’Artagnan’s eager mouth pressing against his jaw, wriggling closer, breaking away only to watch the movement of Porthos’ hand, too, the way it tightens around Aramis’ cock until just the head peeks out from around his closed fist as Porthos strokes it down, squeezing and letting his thumb circle along the tip. 

Aramis turns his head and moans his orgasm against Athos’ cock, lips brushing and breath rushing in soft gasps as he rocks his hips against Porthos’ hand, who strokes him through it, palm cupped over the head to catch his release, fingers smeared with his come. Aramis rocks against him, blinks and smiles up at Athos as he moans, filthy and wanton, and Athos can’t help but quirk his lips into an answering smile. 

He feels a touch to his smile, wet and warm. When he turns his head, Porthos is touching his lips with one fingertip, slick with Aramis’ come. Athos obediently opens his mouth, sucks the finger into his mouth and licks the taste of Aramis from Porthos’ finger, sucks beneath the wet and warm and draws Porthos deep inside. Porthos growls quietly, almost a purr, and slides his finger in deep and leans forward, kissing him once he draws his finger back, curls his tongue into his mouth and tastes him and Athos makes a soft, breathless sound and kisses him back. He hears Aramis’ appreciative moan from his lap, hears d’Artagnan shift, hand pressed to his groin in pleasure and agony. 

Porthos kisses him and Athos sighs, opening his mouth and melting into the touch, feels Porthos cup his jaw and draw him in closer. Athos sighs out again, quieter, and kisses him back – only for Porthos to draw back, grinning at him and turning towards d’Artagnan, who’s sitting there uncertain how to proceed. 

Porthos nods down towards where Aramis licks and kisses along the base of Athos’ cock. “Go on then,” he says quietly to d’Artagnan. “You want to, right?” 

Athos watches d’Artagnan’s silent nod and he drops down to join Aramis, who smiles at him and strokes his fingers over Athos’ cock, and d’Artagnan’s lips curl eagerly along the cockhead and suckles, much like he had for Porthos. Aramis’ smile is warm and indulgent as he licks up Athos’ cock, licks at the corner of d’Artagnan’s stretched mouth – and Athos moans, quiet yet unrestrained. 

Where Aramis is practiced and teasing, d’Artagnan is fast and eager, tongue curling along the cockhead and bobbing his head slightly, nearly hitting Aramis for his troubles where he licks and kisses down the length, letting his lips pillow was he moves. 

And then Aramis slinks up closer to d’Artagnan, kisses his temple, kisses the outline of Athos’ cock against his cheek, then slides his lips to his ear and whispers, loud enough for Athos to hear, “Curl your lips a little more – and slower. He likes it slower. It’s about making him feel good, but remember to have fun, too.” 

He pets his fingers through d’Artagnan’s hair and he makes a soft, strained sound as he swallows down around Athos’ cock, obediently curling his lips around his teeth, obediently licking and suckling and taking his time, swallowing around him, drawing him in deep. Aramis ducks his head again, licking and sucking at the base of his cock as d’Artagnan works the top of him. 

Athos closes his eyes and just feels it for a long moment, feels Porthos at his side, touching at his jaw, touching at his hair, tilting his head back so he can suck and lick and kiss down his neck as Aramis and d’Artagnan work his cock – and it isn’t long before he feels the thrill of his orgasm curling around him in tight coils, and his hands fall down to both heads, tugging gently on d’Artagnan and harder on Aramis, feels them both stutter out quiet moans. Aramis is always greedy to drink him down, but he adheres to d’Artagnan, who doesn’t seem like he’ll pull away from Athos’ cock – instead, he swallows down harder around him, seems determined to suck the come out of him. Aramis winks up at Athos and kisses over his naval before lifting up to kiss Porthos, who’s watching him. 

The three of them watch as d’Artagnan bobs down hard over Athos’ cock, and Athos tilts his head back as he comes, thrusting up into d’Artagnan’s mouth. 

“Eager, isn’t he?” Aramis murmurs and Porthos laughs, breathless and quiet, and Athos hears them kissing, feels the scrape of stubble against his throat as the two of them kiss with him between them. 

“Not unlike you,” Porthos murmurs when they break apart, and Athos tilts his head down – and Porthos chuckles and kisses his chin and then his mouth, and Athos sighs out, tastes Porthos and tastes Aramis on Porthos’ tongue, feels Aramis stroking his hands down his chest over his tunic as d’Artagnan suckles around him, drinks him down. 

“Well,” Aramis says, cheerful, when d’Artagnan draws back from Athos’ cock, almost shyly, glancing up at the three of them. Aramis tips his head against Athos’ shoulder like he had in the beginning, smiling down at d’Artagnan. “Well, well,” he says again, “Was it like you thought it’d be?” 

Athos breathes out and d’Artagnan nods, looking at Athos, lips swollen and quirked into a shy, pleased smile. He nods again and Porthos chuckles, reaches down and curls his fingers in the wisps of d’Artagnan’s hair, tugs once to draw him up. And d’Artagnan goes, and leans in, and kisses Athos, who kisses him back with a small sound, and feels d’Artagnan melt against him, a mix of happiness and hero worship Athos is unsure he’ll ever fully outgrow when it comes to him, but leaves him feeling warm and uncertain and, perhaps, happy all the same. 

“You alright?” Porthos murmurs, warm and quiet against Athos’ ear. Athos moans quietly as he kisses d’Artagnan, and he hears Aramis chuckle quietly in his other ear, nibbles gently on the earlobe. 

“Oh, he’s alright,” Aramis hums out, brushes his hand over his chest and then away – a moment later he hears Porthos sigh out and Athos knows that Aramis is touching him – but he’s too focused on d’Artagnan, who is demanding as he kisses him. He’s all lips and teeth, slide of tongue, and Athos tries to give him what he seeks, kisses him as if learning to breathe, kissing him as if d’Artagnan is his breath – and he can taste himself against his lips, can almost taste the lingering moments of Porthos’ come on his tongue. 

And then d’Artagnan’s hand touches his, draws it down, and Athos feels his hand press up against the hard length of d’Artagnan’s cock and he makes a soft _oh_ into the kiss that draws both Porthos and Aramis’ attentions. 

“Seems we’ve been neglectful,” Aramis sighs out, draws d’Artagnan away from Athos’ mouth – and he’s sad to see him gone, can see the lingering disappointment in d’Artagnan’s eyes when he’s drawn back. 

“Will you fuck me?” d’Artagnan asks suddenly, looks at Athos and then from Porthos to Aramis. 

Porthos laughs. “You have a lot of confidence in our stamina.” 

“Another time,” Aramis promises and Athos stays silent, just watching the way d’Artagnan seems to hum and shudder before them, strained as he scrambles to undo his breeches, looking at them all eagerly, hands shaking. 

And with that, the three of them move, Athos gripping his hips and drawing him up as he leans down, takes the cock into his mouth before either Aramis or Porthos can take up the task – and he hears Aramis laugh quietly, thrilled, under the sound of d’Artagnan’s shocked, pleased gasp. His breeches down to mid-thigh, d’Artagnan stays very still, although his hips tremble beneath Athos’ hands, as Athos works diligently as sucking at him, licking and curling his tongue around him. He kisses d’Artagnan’s cock, brushes his lips against the head and slides them open across it. He engulfs around d’Artagnan slowly, taking him in, all the way down, down and down and swallowing him whole. He hears and feels the way d’Artagnan trembles and gasps above him, until the sound is muffled and he moans. Athos glances up, sees Aramis cupping his face reverently as he kisses him, slow and gentle, swallowing down all his mewls and moans. 

He feels Porthos’ hand in his hair, stroking his head, fingers glossing through his hair and Athos pauses to look up at Porthos, who grins at him and lifts his eyebrows. Athos ducks his head, feels a blush of all things work its way up his neck and to his ears, and swallows around d’Artagnan. He glances up at Porthos, sees the way the corners come up at his lips, curving into a brilliant smile, soft laughter breathing out as he lifts his hand and sucks two fingers into his mouth, working them slowly with his tongue. Athos watches, mesmerized, parroting the movements with his own tongue against d’Artagnan’s cock. He hears him moan into Aramis’ mouth. He watches as Porthos drops his hand down behind d’Artagnan, can tell the exact moment when his fingers brush over him because d’Artagnan gasps out and his hips shudder up, pressing his cock deep into Athos’ mouth. He refuses to cough at the sudden intrusion and turns his head slightly, taking him down deep. 

He knows the exact moment when Porthos actually presses a slicked finger into d’Artagnan because he hears him shift, hears him kiss d’Artagnan’s ear, hears him whisper, quiet and low, “Think you can handle it inside you just cause you’ve had in your mouth?” 

He feels him shift, feels him more than hears him whimper quietly into Aramis’ mouth. Porthos chuckles, low and warm, and Athos can imagine how his eyes must be glimmering at the words. He glances up at Porthos, sees the way his hand moves, stroking into d’Artagnan in a steady pace, shallow and slow, so as not to hurt him. 

“Want all three of us taking turns, or just want it to be Athos?” Porthos whispers and d’Artagnan moans quietly. 

And it doesn’t take long after that, if only for the three’s efforts focused solely on d’Artagnan, or envisioning the three of them fucking him in turn, but it takes only a few more strokes of his tongue to coax d’Artagnan’s orgasm, and his mouth fills with his come that he swallows down soundly, moaning quietly and stroking over where his mouth can’t reach, milking him dry. 

“Oh, you’re pretty when you come,” Aramis whispers as he strokes his fingers over d’Artagnan’s face, his mouth opened slightly, moaning and thrashing and thrusting eagerly into Athos’ open and willing mouth. Porthos chuckles, draws his hand back and lets d’Artagnan ride out his orgasm with his hands fisted tight in Athos’ hair. 

Athos obediently holds still, lets d’Artagnan use him as he sees fit, and draws back only once he’s sure he’s spent, wiping the back of his mouth thoughtfully and straightening his clothes for him. Aramis is smiling at him indulgently and Porthos laughs, mumbling something about polite upbringings that Athos feels is not fully fair, seeing as how he’s reaching out to adjust Aramis’ clothes for him, too. 

“Feeling better?” Porthos asks, and Athos is unsure if he’s being asked or d’Artagnan is. But they both nod, so it works out just as well. Porthos turns towards Aramis, who shrugs and leans forward, pressing his face to his neck and just slumping against him. Porthos catches him obediently, one arm curled around him. He looks at Athos, and lifts his other arm in invitation and Athos goes to him with a soft murmur, tugging d’Artagnan along with him so that the three of them are encased within Porthos’ embrace. 

And then Porthos flops back unceremoniously, sighing out, d’Artagnan sprawled out on top of him and Athos and Aramis tucked up to each sides. He strokes his hands absently over their backs and just smiles at d’Artagnan, who doesn’t quite pout but seems put out that he’s not getting any attention. Aramis remedies this a moment later by lifting his hand and petting his fingers through his hair. 

They sleep like that soon after and Athos is left awake, watching them all, and feeling both safe and enveloped – protected and wanted. And that, perhaps, was all he could ever have hoped for, or thought he deserved. He sighs out, and closes his eyes.


End file.
